


Why Am I So Cold...

by WaywardLeviathan



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Short Story, Slight description of Violence, corvo is a confused puppy, heart-centric, i tried to do high chaos, the heart is depressed to all hell, the outsider does his little rants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 13:05:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4480205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaywardLeviathan/pseuds/WaywardLeviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The voice of his beloved went on and on as he crouched atop the collapsing apartment building. The weepers swarmed below; completely ignored by the over-sized rats with teeth that gnawed the bones of the dead. Blood ran from their eyes as they stumbled and swayed and babbled nonsense. All of it sickened him. He then noticed that the only speech present was now that babbling. Her ramblings had ceased."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why Am I So Cold...

His clothes were tattered and worn; the blood swirling with the frozen raindrops and soaking the fabric, though he refused to shiver. A chant sped through his mind, but died upon his lips.

_For Emily. For Emily. For Emily._

He was cold and terrified, though it didn't show in the slightest. The knife in his right hand felt so natural and the Magic that thrummed through his left felt absolutely divine (despite its Giver being anything but).

He mentally checked off names of those he had killed on command like an Abbey wolfhound.

Thaddeus Campbell is dead.

Lady Boyle is dead.

Morgan and Custis Pendleton are dead.

Hiram Burrows is dead.

Farley Havelock is dead..

The only one left was the very pride and joy of his heart, little Emily, _she is alive_. That fact kept him going. Could he ever forsake this and be lord protector again? Could he save her, steer her away from this dark path wrought by even darker deeds she's witnessed?

All he could imagine was the blade Piero made just for him at the command of The Leviathan slicing _ever so easily_ into flesh; his mask—the very visage of deaths—splattering with blood being the last thing his unfortunate victim sees. All of it sickened him. This was who he was ever since the lord regent hired Daud and his blade pierced her lungs. The day the empress' heart fell into his hands. The beautiful clockwork was mesmerizing as it thumped in his scarred, calloused hands. A melancholic voice whispered various phrases as his eyes scanned his surroundings into his mind from the heart's depths.

"He was a baker's son."

"She used to be a tailor."

"They are cold, confused, and in pain"

The voice of his beloved went on and on as he crouched atop the collapsing apartment building. The weepers swarmed below; completely ignored by the over-sized rats with ever-growing teeth that gnawed the bones of the dead. Blood ran from their eyes as they stumbled and swayed and babbled nonsense. All of it sickened him. He then noticed that the only speech present was now that babbling. Her ramblings had ceased.

"I'm so cold. Why am I so cold... _Corvo_?" the heart said, breaking the silence that had permeated the air.

And that was his undoing. He leaped from the height of the ruin, and closed his eyes. He felt the Void caress him and dull his fall. Opening them, his feet pounded upon the crumbling streets. _Splash splash splash, **thud**_. Looking about himself, he saw that the scenery had changed from desolate ruin with a clouded sky to buildings of all eras and states of disrepair just floating amidst the stars. The leviathans swimming freely; empty space no different than the sea. The scent in the air would aggree.

"This place is the end of all things... and the beginning," the heart remarked forlornly.

This place, the Void, was calling to him without a single word. His left hand tingled with thrumming, eldritch Magic. He followed the paths made for him, however dastardly they might be. It changed without warning or context on It's whim. Flat expanses of plain to hovering chunks of the dying city he once knew like he once knew himself. Its form, cloaked in shadows, was a familiar presence, as Its essence flowed through him causing the Mark to itch and burn. Its was a dishevelled mess, drenched with seawater. Its skin was pale, clammy, just like a corpse that drowned in the icy brine out at sea. Its eyes, so black _black **black**_ , saw everything, even down into the pits of his soul. A grin broke out on Its face. The pale blue lips parting to speak.

" _My dear Corvo_ , what a mess you've made of it, now. The blood stains your hands no matter how many times you wash. That knife of yours an extension of yourself and the Mark I bestowed upon you throbs. You—however much you claim to loathe all of this—are in your very element. The courtly games, the pleasantries and intrigues, killed you inside; the quiet too much. A lover and child too domestic and simple to suit you. You long for the booming of pistols, the swish of the crossbow bolt passed your ear, the hacking of the blade through flesh. All of this is you."

He did not retort. It was not his place. He had no way to defend himself, for it was all true. Others play with prestige and manners and wit and status. Blood and chaos and grime and death are his pieces in _his_ game. The heart spoke up again; this time to the god before him.

"One day, this place will devour all the lights in the sky. Take me as well... _please_ "


End file.
